


Lay Your Hands on Me

by JinxedAmbitions



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, Hot springs cuddles, M/M, Massage, Rimming, this is super soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxedAmbitions/pseuds/JinxedAmbitions
Summary: Every year on his way north to Kaer Morhen, Geralt stops in a small village in the mountains known for their hot springs.  It’s there that he visits a certain blue-eyed masseur who happily works away the aches of another year on the Path.OrJaskier is a medieval massage therapist who is more than willing to see that Geralt gets a happy ending.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 498





	Lay Your Hands on Me

The steam was thick enough to be more of a fog that filled the cavern. The cavern itself was lit by a number of torches which, when combined with the thick steam coming off the springs, created an ethereal glow. It was like existing in a dream—if the dream cost a remarkable amount of coin and came with a personal masseur.

Long, strong fingers worked their way down Geralt’s bare back as he laid on one of the stone tables in the chamber. They worked out the aches of battle and wear as he let himself drift in meditation. Something he allowed himself to do around many outside of Kaer Morhen.

The fragrance of the oils hung in the air, and the soothing sound of a steady voice kept Geralt anchored. 

“You have lovely skin,” Jaskier—the only masseur who would willingly serve Geralt—said as he used his palm to deeply work the tense muscles in Geralt’s back. 

Geralt had been stopping at the hot springs every autumn on his way to Kaer Morhen for nearly a decade. Jaskier was always there when he arrived. He’d been quite young the first time Geralt had shown up still bloody and bruised from a contract. The man he’d done the contract for had suggested it, even paid for it. However, none of the other masseurs had been willing to venture into the caverns with him, but Jaskier had looked at him with a defiant air about him and led the way.

He hadn’t shut up since. Chattering away from the moment Geralt would arrive. Asking about contracts and adventures, once in a while pausing the massage to jot a bit down. Sometimes he’d sing. He had a beautiful voice, and when Geralt would let himself, he’d wonder if perhaps the man had missed his calling.

However, he was a master with his hands. 

Geralt was not used to touch, and he rarely sought it out, but Jaskier was worth every instant of discomfort he might feel at the onset. And over the years, that discomfort had diminished to a barely noticeable buzz when Geralt would lead Roach through the gates of the sanctuary.

“I notice you have several new beauty marks,” Jaskier said, letting his finger lightly trail down a more recent scar. He always called them beauty marks, and while Geralt had growled at the terrible name the first dozen times, he’d come to realize Jaskier wasn’t being cruel. He saw every mark as a piece of Geralt’s story which he very often proclaimed had all of the makings of a great epic or an alluring ballad.

“Getting old and slow,” Geralt grumbled, realizing he’d come out of his meditation.

“Can’t have that. I’ll have to work deeper, loosen you up so your spry and limber,” Jaskier said, really digging into Geralt’s bad shoulder.

Geralt grunted as pain flared before the sudden wash of relief. He groaned long and deep as Jaskier continued to work his fingers into the tissue.

“There it is. It always gives me trouble, but I’m not easily defeated.” Jaskier’s tone was light and teasing, but Geralt knew the strength it took to manipulate a body such as his own. Between the mutations and the potions, Jaskier might as well have been trying to massage a slab of granite.

Jaskier’s fingers worked lower once he was satisfied with Geralt’s shoulder. He dug into Geralt’s lower back, and Geralt sighed as he felt himself practically melt with the touch. He didn't understand how Jaskier could seemingly make him boneless with just a well placed touch, but his medallion never vibrated, so it couldn't be magic.

“You are chattier than I recall.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t be shy, Geralt. It’s been a decade. We’re friends at this point. I won’t tease you for enjoying my hands on you. In fact, I’d judge you more if you didn’t enjoy them but kept coming anyway.”

“We’re not friends,” Geralt grumbled. It was an old argument at this point, a comfort as much as the touch.

“Right, right. You just let anyone rub chamomile all over your lovely bottom...speaking of which, where is my chamomile oil?” Jaskier’s hands left his back, and Geralt sensed him walking over to his pack.

“I don’t have any friends who rub my ass with oils either,” Geralt grumbled, trying to imagine Eskel or, better yet, Lambert rubbing his ass with lightly scented oil to coax the muscles to be less of a literal pain in the ass.

“Aha!” Jaskier cried triumphantly. 

Geralt didn’t bother to open an eye to see the man holding up the proper vial of chamomile oil. He’d seen the man make a fool of himself plenty of times. His mind was completely capable of filling in the blanks.

“You should get better friends, Geralt,” Jaskier said as Geralt heard the stopper come free and the scent of chamomile slowly worked its way into the heavy air.

“Witchers don’t have friends.”

“Nonsense. You have Eskel and Lambert. They never touched your lovely bottom?”

Geralt snorted. “Certainly not with good intentions.”

Jaskier’s laughter was almost musical in nature. It rang out clear, and uncompromisingly. The man never shied away from joy.

“Very well, I will take it as my solemn duty, as your only true friend, to bestow the proper and deserved love upon your bottom.”

“You are a twit,” Geralt grumbled, but he didn’t protest as Jaskier’s masterful hands cupped his cheeks and began to knead with purpose.

Geralt groaned as Jaskier dug into the tense muscles. Geralt had felt few things in his very long life that compared to Jaskier’s hands. When he worked on the hip that sometimes gave Geralt trouble and later the knee that never really stopped aching, Geralt was floating somewhere in the heavy steam. Jaskier was that good.

“Time for the spring,” Jaskier’s gentle voice once again cut through the cloud Geralt was floating in, this time signaling the end of the massage.

Geralt grunted, blinking his eyes open and adjusting to the torchlight again.

“Let’s go, old man,” Jaskier said, helping Geralt to sit up on the stone table. It was really just a large flat rock. He knew that they would put blankets or cushions down for guests, but Geralt had never asked for any sort of comfort beyond Jaskier’s fingers. Just as he hadn’t asked for a blanket to cover his nudity as Jaskier worked.

Geralt didn’t bother to protest as Jaskier guided him off the table and over to the hot spring bubbling up just a few feet away. Jaskier slipped into the water first, wearing nothing but his smallclothes. Geralt sank in after him, immediately finding a place to settle.

This was usually the part where the masseur would make their exit, but Jaskier never had in all the times Geralt had come. He always stayed to chat as Geralt relaxed in the spring, like he couldn’t quite tear himself away just yet.

The hot water felt like heaven on Geralt’s muscles. If he didn’t have to arrive at Kaer Morhen before the first snows, he could see himself just spending days meditating in the hot springs. 

“Feeling better?” Jaskier asked, coming to settle between Geralt’s spread thighs.

“Mm. Your hands continue to work miracles,” Geralt said, remembering the cocky young man he’d met years ago. Geralt had been skeptical, but Jaskier had insisted that his hands worked wonders, and Geralt had yet to be disappointed by their skill.

“Well, I continue to be a true master of the arts…”

“I didn’t know massage was one of the seven liberal arts,” Geralt muttered, tipping his head back against the rocks.

Jaskier slapped his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that I mastered far more than just the seven liberal arts in my time at Oxenfurt. 

“I have no doubt. You likely massaged the smallclothes right off every pretty maid you encountered.”

“I take offense to that. As you should be well aware, I massaged them off every pretty gentleman I encountered as well,” Jaskier huffed, straddling Geralt’s thighs to make himself at home in Geralt’s lap. Only the thin fabric of his smallclothes stood between them.

“How forgetful of me,” Geralt said, letting his eyes remain closed.

“I will have to give you reason to remember.” Jaskier pressed his lips to Geralt’s neck, and licked the sweat and moisture of the air off of it before taking Geralt’s earlobe between his teeth and worrying it.

Geralt settled his hands on Jaskier’s hips, holding him steady as Jaskier latched onto his neck and sucked a bruise into the skin. It wouldn’t last long, but Jaskier enjoyed marking him up when it was just the two of them. In fact, Geralt had never seen him so proud of his work as when Geralt left the springs several years ago with a prominent bruise above his collar.

Jaskier rolled his hips against Geralt’s as he pulled back before sealing their lips together in a heated kiss.

Geralt ran his palms up the planes of Jaskier’s back, savoring the strength he could feel beneath the surface. Strength that brought him such relief after another year on the Path.

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s jaw, always gentle with him after a massage like Geralt was something precious to be cherished. Warmth settled in his belly, knowing that Jaskier thrived on these moments as much as he did.

Their hips rocked in unison, finding the perfect rhythm between them. Their lips rarely parted as Geralt’s hand worked its way into Jaskier’s smallclothes and freed him of their confines. 

It was Jaskier who reached for the vial of special oil he packed just for Geralt—or just for Geralt and any of his other clients who Jaskier was fucking. Geralt didn’t open his eyes as Jaskier got off of his lap and sank between his thighs instead. He pressed kisses to Geralt's chest, mumbling barely coherent praise.

Geralt’s legs fell open as Jaskier settled between them, taking full advantage of his loosened muscles. 

When a slick finger worked its way inside him, Geralt barely tensed around it, loving the way Jaskier’s strong fingers could be so gentle as they worked him open slowly.

Jaskier’s lips barely left Geralt’s skin the entire time as he kissed his chest and neck, nipping at his throat and ears. He treated Geralt as a delicacy to be savored, and that didn’t stop once he slowly pushed into Geralt.

It was a slow dance as Jaskier’s hips began to roll smoothly in the hot water. Geralt groaned as he gave Jaskier complete control to take him apart.

“Godsdamnit, you are perfect,” Jaskier praised, running his hands over Geralt’s biceps and holding him close. 

Geralt grunted, but he kept his smart comments to himself. Jaskier was a revelation, and there was no use ruining the moment over his flowery speeches.

It didn’t take much to stoke the warmth in Geralt’s gut into a wildfire. Jaskier wasn’t just skilled with his hands. 

When Geralt groaned and shook as he spilled into the bubbling waters, Jaskier watched him with smiling eyes. He always watched Geralt come undone like it was something to truly cherish, and Geralt had long since gotten over the oddness of it.

Jaskier mouthed at Geralt’s throat and whispered praise as Geralt slowly came back down. Jaskier was still hard between them, waiting for his turn faithfully.

Geralt wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist and lifted him half out of the water and over the rocky ledge until Jaskier’s chest was flat on the rocks and his legs dangled into the water. 

Jaskier pulled one of the blankets from his pack and settled it beneath him then crossed his arms and rested his head on them. He wiggled his ass playfully as though to say he was ready.

Geralt looked at the almost sheer fabric of Jaskier’s smallclothes which still covered his ass, and he reached for them. The easy tearing of wet fabric was a testament to Geralt’s strength, and it always left Jaskier panting a little harder. Jaskier had begun bringing a spare pair as Geralt often tore the ones he wore cleanly in half. 

Leaving the fabric around Jaskier’s hips, Geralt spread Jaskier’s cheeks and pressed his tongue between them. 

Jaskier practically sang with the sudden contact, and he never stopped babbling or squirming as Geralt worked his tongue past the muscle. He used the oil to work a couple fingers in as well, and by the time he had wrung Jaskier dry, the man was a shaking mess.

“I don’t know how I survive without such thorough treatment all year,” Jaskier mumbled, once he’d sunk back into the water and into Geralt’s lap again. His torn smallclothes still clung to his thighs, waving gently like fins in the water.

“Mm.”

“You know, if you took me with you, I could work those knots out before they turn to stone.” Jaskier wrapped a strand of Geralt’s hair around his finger as he rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. It was a familiar request, but Geralt always turned him down. It was too dangerous, and he would not be responsible for the ills that befell Jaskier at his side.

“You wouldn’t have the chance. The monsters would hear us coming because of your endless chatter, and there would be nothing left of either of us,” Geralt said, playing with the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

“But what a death it would be.”

“Death isn’t heroic. It’s messy.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes looked up at him. He smiled , his whole face bright and loving. 

“Will you still come visit me when I am old and gray, and my hands can no longer bring you relief?” Jaskier dragged his fingertips through the water before trailing them over Geralt’s chest.

The thought hit him as hard as a bruxa’s scream. Unprepared to confront the knowledge that Jaskier’s years were finite. Even if Geralt could die on any contract, there was something so concrete about the human lifespan. It was something he’d done a good job of avoiding until Jaskier. His relationships with humans were too fleeting to gouge at the heart.

“Mm.” Geralt was not equipped with the proper words to comfort Jaskier or assure him that time would not dull his affections. 

“That’s kind of you. I think we will get along quite well then. I promise to be extra cantankerous in my old age, just for you. Perhaps by then I will have written my memoirs with an entire chapter dedicated to the hero who would visit me once a year.”

“Your memoir will be nothing by sex.”

“As any good memoir should be!”

Geralt chuckled. Jaskier still had the mind of a child even if he’d left childhood behind years ago. 

“Will you be less maudlin if I promise to visit again in the spring?” Geralt asked, pulling Jaskier just a hair closer.

“I suppose that will satisfy me for now...though I could just follow you to your secret lair and throw myself at your feet as we are snowed in for the winter. Would that not be romantic?”

Geralt snorted. “You would do nothing but complain of drafts all winter.”

“We could share body heat!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Stay here where it is safe and warm, and in the spring we will meet again.”

“Very well, but I demand a story,” Jaskier insisted as he always did. It didn’t matter their argument, Jaskier always magnanimously ceded but demanded a story for his trouble.

“A tale of heroics and heartbreak?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Jaskier wiggled, wrapping his arm around Geralt’s middle to hold them close.

Geralt sighed, but he thought of the contracts he’d taken and the monsters he’d hunted, and he thought about which would make Jaskier happiest to hear. Then he launched into a brief retelling that became more and more drawn out as Jaskier stopped him to ask questions and demand details. By the time he finished, they were long past their time and fully wrinkled from the water.

They dressed side by side before leaving the hot spring and heading toward the tavern where they’d share a meal and, if Jaskier had no other engagements, a bed.


End file.
